A Toast to Starry Nights (9 page)

Writing as fast and legibly as I could,
the paperwork was soon ready to go. So was I. Hypnosis held no attraction to
me. It never had. I'm a life-long skeptic of hocusy-pokusy crap-–my only
concession to the paranormal is the Tarot deck Willow gave me when I was
sixteen, which I still use. But conjuring up a lifetime while under the
guidance of someone paid to create head trips seemed bullshit to me. This was
up there with bending spoons, faked pictures of fairies, Victorian ghosts
spewing ectoplasm, channeling long dead relatives and group sex with incubi.
I'm wasting my time. Apparently an astounding amount of people who frequent
Past Life Regression Therapists believe in past lives themselves whereas I'm
agnostic on the topic.

A deep breath and Jet's words of wisdom
echoing through my mind,
“...cents a day to keep your mom from hippiefying
the whole shindig...”
bolstered my resolution. I can do this. I will do
this!

I'm sure Jet would be proud to know I
wore my big girl underoos and handed the completed paperwork back to the
receptionist with semblance of a smile upon my face.

She removed the papers from the
clipboard and looked up at me. “It'll be a few minutes. He's finishing up with
his current client.”

“Okay.” I beat a retreat to my seat and
noticed the ambient music wafting through the air. Vivaldi. Exquisite. Maybe
this won't be so terrible... ah, the cell phone. I fished it out of my purse
and put it on silent mode. Interruptions wouldn't be appreciated, I'm sure. A
glance to the stacks of magazines displayed National Geographic, Popular
Science and Modern Psychology. Nah. Music would suffice for now. My head leaned
back against the wall and I shut out the world with closed eyes to enjoy the
music. It was during “Autumn”, when I heard that voice talking in the distance.
Oh God no. Again, impeccable timing for the win.

“Kaylis?”

I opened my eyes to see my maternal unit
standing next to a portly fellow garbed in a hunter-green dress shirt with
black slacks and loafers. Willow wore her usual broomstick skirt and tunic top;
this time in tropical colors of teal, aquamarine and yellow. Her hippie
ensemble completed by the old Birkenstocks upon her feet. “Hiya Willow. Guess
what you won't be doing?” I smiled wide, cheered by the thought of not passing
out phasers as wedding favors. Here, proof that I am fulfilling the obligations
for my side of The Agreement.

“Ah, no wedding planning for me I
suppose. Let's get a late lunch after your appointment to discuss my surrender,
okay honey? Oh! Jack! This is my daughter, Kaylis Prudence.”

I mentally grimaced at her use of my
middle name during an introduction but smiled as my mother continued.

”Kaylis, this is Dr. Jack Neilsinhaur.”

Ah, finally. The man behind my mother's
claims towards Tudor Royalty.

Neilsinhaur shook my hand in a firm
grip. A serene feeling emanated from him like the sensation of sunshine
touching bared skin on a spring day. It was like a warm magnetic field started
in his chocolate-brown eyes and spread to those closest around him. The
recessed lighting glinted red upon his closely cropped black hair.

“Kaylis, it's a pleasure.”

“Dr. Neilsinhaur. Willow has told me so
much about you.”

His eyebrows quirked. “Really? I'm sure
you are equally interesting.”

Willow stepped towards me and pecked a
kiss on my cheek. “It's not so bad, Kaylis,” she whispered into my ear.
“Remember, the Klingon God of War fears not a challenge. Channel your inner
Klingon, sweetie. You'll thank me for this... wait and see.”

Meh.

Dr. Neilsinhaur and Willow bid their
goodbyes to each other before he whisked me off down the same hallway that
echoed my mother's voice minutes earlier.

He led me into a room bereft of the
psychoanalysis couch that I envisioned on my way over to Chico. Two fluffy
armchairs sat near each other, across from a sofa upholstered in tan, green and
navy stripes. A desk and computer chair in one corner, faced outward towards
the center of the room, and juxtaposed from that, an aquarium of middling size.
He beckoned toward a chair for me to sit in, while he took position in the
computer chair. Neilsinhaur leaned forward and spoke.

“I'm going to explain what I do, then
we'll start diving into why you find yourself here.

“The premise of my practice is that
everyone possesses a soul that gets recycled. The body may die and decay, but
the essence of our being is an electrical impulse that goes into what is called
the Collective Unconsciousness. That's sort of a super-highway that links
everyone's mind on a deep, primal level. Everyone is connected, some closer
than others. People you know in this life were most likely souls you knew in a
past life; that's why some people leave more lasting impressions than others.
Sometimes the soul houses scars from a past life. Those traumas from a past
life can carry over to a current life, impacting the subject. Patterns can
reemerge and cause havoc for one, especially if they aren't aware of said
pattern. The goal here is to identify the trauma or event that left the scar
tissue which is affecting your quality of life in this lifetime. Heal, and the
scar tissue will fade away.”

I really didn't care what he was saying.
I wanted my hour over and done with so I could get out of here. It sounded nice
and all, but I was familiar with the works of Carl Jung and his definition of
the Collective Unconsciousness. I crossed my ankles and my top foot started a
nervous twitching that caused me correct my position and sit with both feet on
the floor.

“Tell me why you're here.”

“Do you want the short or long answer?”
I held his candid gaze as I queried him.

“Give me both answers.”

“Short answer is that it's a part of a deal
with my mother. I see you; she stays away from planning my wedding. If you're
familiar with Gene Roddenberry's contribution to fringe society, you'll
understand why that's a bad idea, given my first name. She told me to channel
my 'inner Klingon' right before we came in here. I love my mother, but I know
what I want for my wedding and any help she does contribute will be
appreciated. But planning is strictly off limits.”

I took a deep sigh and lined up my train
of thought. “Long answer is that I had an embarrassing moment happen with
someone, then a traumatic moment with somebody else. Both times, I felt the
same feeling of dread. Don't know why I reacted the way I did. There was
nothing to be scared of, nothing about the first incident that would give me a
panic attack, unlike the second incident. I don't want to feel like that again.
I don't want to associate my hunny with that beyond-crappy feeling.”

He wrote in a notebook I didn't see him
grab.

Oooh. My mother is good.

“I see... tell me about the embarrassing
moment.”

“I puked on my boyfriend while he
proposed to me--in public.” Relief swept over me that he didn't laugh or
otherwise make an issue of that particular bout of nausea.

“I'm sorry to hear that. I take it you
accepted?”

“Yep. Out in the parking lot.”

“Congratulations. Now tell me about the
traumatic moment.”

“My ex-boyfriend came unannounced to my
home. He and I didn't part on the best of terms.”

All the while, he scribbled in that
notebook.

“Tell me about your ex-boyfriend...
we'll get to your fiancé eventually.”

I didn't know where to begin and
Neilsinhaur tried to guide my path. “How did you meet the ex?”

“Went out of state to art school,
dropped out. Moved back home, got depressed. Started getting involved with
internet forums. Joined an astronomy one. Met a guy on there. Mike seemed
interesting. He wasn't into sports, cars or hunting. A change of pace,
personality wise, for me.. Anyway, we begun an instant message and email
correspondence since he lived in Berkeley. I had a friend who moved to
Livermore, and she offered me a room. I took it up in a heartbeat. Got the hell
out of Dodge and he and I were only an hour apart. We dated, ended up moving in
together. And uh, that was probably one of the dumbest things I have ever
done.”

I didn't like talking about Mike.
Talking about it is almost as bad as reliving it. I shy away from feeling those
emotions and remembering things best left forgotten. It's the past, and I
wanted nothing more than to put it behind me, out of mind, and never go back to
those dark places that rot the soul. Voicing the atrocities Mike subjected me
to made them real again, gave him power, if only in my mind.

“Why is that?” I startled at the sound
of Neilsinhaur's voice shredding the cloth of silence.

I looked up at the ceiling of acoustic
tile and gritted my teeth. It's not nice to talk about someone when they aren't
around, but it's damn hard not to be biased. After a deep cleansing sigh, I
spoke. “Mike is an actor. A good one. In fact, I'd call him the King of Bullshit--
which he had referred to himself as more than once. For five and a half years
he presented a façade because he thought I wouldn't like the real him. He was
right. The real Mike was a bitter, hateful, cruel person who didn't care about
others. I mean, I know I am no saint, but never could I do to another what he
did to me. There was a time I wish he had died before his mask came off, so I
could mourn the nicer side I thought he possessed.”

Neilsinhaur wrote more, asking “Can you
tell me what he did?”

“Yeah.”

Yeah I can.. Do I want to tell you, Dr.
None of your business? Not really. But since you asked, fine. Jot this shit
down, Dr. Gonna Ask Uncomfortable Questions.

I took a deep breath with my eyes
closed. Then the rushing river of hurt came pouring from the mountains of my
soul. There was no way to stem the flow – thoughts blended into other thoughts,
seasoned by the hurt I felt then, and the desire to not recall it all now. But
it was too late. The floodgates were wide open and unchecked. “He cheated on me
indiscriminately which resulted in me getting an STD, albeit a treatable one.
Tried screwing my best friend behind my back, and the second worst thing he
ever did was get me drunk to be raped by the boyfriend of the chick he was
screwing and was trying to get me in a foursome with. I wanted nothing to do
with them or that situation.”

Why did I start talking about this? I
didn't want to tell anyone this, of a shame that was, but wasn't mine. Just
thinking of that particular incident still made me ill. Dammit. Why the hell
did I mention it? If I don't acknowledge it, it never happened. I can pretend
it's a horrible nightmare that has yet to fade from my mind. Reason Number One
not to drink vodka; not the hangover, but the insanity which taints the blood
and mind.

The moment washed over me and I
remembered. Everything I wish never happened so I never had to think of ever
again hit me with the force of a thousand bricks to the head.

Mike played host and was pouring drinks.
I had gone outside a bit earlier to get air and escape the situation. I was
pissed off that Mike had brought his fling and her boyfriend home and that I
was expected to participate in the bacchanal frenzy. I tried to sit inside
Mike's El Camino and wear off my drunken stupor, but he locked it. Instead, I
stood off to the side of the house, in the shadow of a moonlit lemon tree. I
could smell the citrus scent and the prickle of the foliage from when I tried
to hide myself among the lower branches. The guy Mike invited over followed me
out and tried kissing me. I went inside and puked.

“I don't handle vodka well, and Mike
kept pouring the drinks and egging me to finish them. He took the bottle of
water I was drinking from and chugged it, refilled it with vodka and gave it
back to me. I went to lie down because I was feeling shitty and the guy
followed me. The vodka had made me so drunk that I couldn't focus on anything
other than not retching again. He had lain next to me and asked me what I
wanted. I said I didn't know, that I couldn't think. I don't remember anything
past that until I woke up the next morning.”

God, I hated this. I hated recalling the
shame of Mike's gaze as he called me a whore and a slut. That I cheated on him.
Never mind that he ended up taking off with what's-her-face in his car and
fucked her. He threw it in my face right before he called me a whore. He came
back, and according to him, took turns with the sleezeball, having sex with my
passed out body. It didn't sink in for a while, what all Mike screeched at me.
It was during my shower when I finally sobered up and the full realization hit.
I sat down in the scalding hot water and puked, this time from shame. Only
after the water turned ice cold did I get out, heartbroken and sobbing like a
little girl with a skinned knee and sore soul.

“But I was young, dumb and naïve enough
to believe that true love would conquer all, just like the Disney flicks
teach.”

I didn't take into account that the
other half of the relationship needed to be interested in salvaging the
tattered remains of trust and shreds of self-worth to actually make it work.
But then, I got pregnant. When I went to the OB, I found out that it wasn't
really a pregnancy, but a malignant growth of placenta tissue gone awry. A
molar pregnancy-- no baby. I had the tissue removed, which sucked. Mike refused
to go with me when I asked. He told me to go and get a friend to go with me. So
I did. It hurt, physically and emotionally. I couldn't get pregnant for a year,
in case there was any lingering tissue and had to go in for monthly blood tests
because of the potential for it to become cancerous.